


I'm a mess

by turva_auto



Series: Jääkiekko - ice hockey [10]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Career Ending Injuries, Hooker AU, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-24 09:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6148711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turva_auto/pseuds/turva_auto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hooker AU no one asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fallen angel

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this one came from. I'm sorry, okay I'm NOT - but yeah. Have fun reading.

It is night in Pittsburgh, the stars are hidden behind a thick cloud cover and the winter with its almost Siberian temperatures is creeping slowly into every corner between land and sea. Canada isn't far away for reasons, he thinks. Home sweet home a long time ago, home in a time where everything was different from now, a time in an almost different life of a different person. Not the same one who's now huddled up against a rough brick wall in clothes barely enough to cover him for the weather, hugging himself in an attempt to stay warm while hopping from one foot to the other.

The puddles in the gutter are already covered by a light layer of ice as he pulls his thin sweatshirt tighter around the thin body that is almost screaming anorexic, with his hip bones clearly visible outlining the path to the half torn dirty jeans that had more fancy holes in them, than really necessary at this time of year. Revealing delicate skin to the ice cold biting night air. The scarf he owned has long been lost, maybe one of the other guys took it, maybe one of the Jon's did, he doesn't remember and it doesn't really matter anymore.

His sweatshirt is torn open, the cut revealing a peek to his chest, giving the wind more room to assault his body

He's alone since almost an hour, when one of the other guys went off with another Jon, walking in circles on his spot in this impasse on the outskirts of the city and yet it seems to him, as if there had already several days passed, since he had been leaning up against the same wall here. His body shaking in the winters cold like a leaf in an autumn breeze.

His knees tremble when the next vehicle with bright headlights turns into the alley to pass in walking speed by him as well as some of the other guys further down at the end of the road.

His gaze flickered up long enough to tense his muscles up and into action. He can feel the longing and devouring glances behind the mirrored windows and lays on his best act of trying to seem interesting. Even though he rather would throw up in disgust at himself

He needs the money. The days of glory are long gone and over. The days as a hockey player with millions of dollars through commercial deals and for shooting the puck across sheets of ice for a living. Days of hordes of screaming women and life in abundance.

Yeah, he dropped kind of low compared to his old self and standards. Got washed down and rinsed out in this part of town, vanished from tabloids and stuck in this dirty alley, where he sells his body for several months in order to fund his addiction and life. Not that he had that much rent to pay, there was a place in a shelter somewhere, every other month or so.

Such a reputation like the one he used to have, had its drawbacks, the fans never got to see. The dark side of promo, expectations, game stats and travel all over the globe in a year or at least all over the US and Canada – in case the off season was falling short, as well as all the unnamed ugly shots PR usually covered up nicely for. After blowing out his knee and injuring his wrist so severely, that he no longer was able to hold control of a stick and never returned for the next season after being put on long term IR, nor to the team's roster, the dark side offered more than just cookies to him. Alongside the final concussion it lured him in with white powder that slowly overtook his life, first keeping him up at night to avoid the nightmares and to numb the never ending pain before it started to swallow everything else up as well in the process.

His dark side is called cocaine.

Somehow, somewhere, somebody had offered it to him by holding it in front of his nose, in order to escape the stress. It had comforted the lonely hours away from home, when they'd been off for road trips. It had narrowed his bank account and let his body fall, breaking up the only closer relationship he ever had. He does not need it as often as he used to, right after the doctor's final reports, but when the days are growing darker, when he usually would step onto the ice to amuse thousands of people with his skills, the need for this false sense of security goes skyrocketing.

Feeling abandoned and unloved, it has been the only constant in his life, since he lost his career to a final but clean hit in the regular season. He does not even remember which player crashed him, which team they were playing against that fateful night. If a penalty had been called after he had gone down, bleeding and with the last concussion he could have afforded while still playing actively. The music of blades scraping into ice for purchase that could heal each and every wound is gone. It is silenced forever. He will never get that feeling back, often finds himself mulling over the thought of what the rest of the team is probably doing now.

Who was still playing?

Who had retired?

Who had married?

Who had become a dad?

Who got the captaincy?

Who was the alternate now?

Did they change the head coach?

Years after that fateful night he had honest to god no idea. He never had checked any stats, avoided every social media, hasn't offered any final interview, nor soundbite or even comment, or given advice to his agent to put out a release. Despite all the mess made up by the organisation to cover up the way he had disappeared and erased himself from all things hockey; he was left, searching for himself and something to fill the void left behind by his loss.

Looking for something to cover up what he was missing most in life. A band aid to put on his bleeding everything in an attempt to fix himself.

 

The next pair of headlights appeared in the darkness bright lights tearing the night apart, scattering over his body slowly. He tries his hardest to suppress the trembling of his body, and waits like always, if he is going to be the choice of the night for them or if they want one from the guys further down the road. The car comes to a halt in front of him. To say he is surprised wouldn't even cover it. He forces a happy smile on his face, furrowing his brow a little like he knows they usually like, as the window is let down, tries to strike a slightly pose even, despite his shaking limbs.

"2 hours, 50$, no questions." the guy behind the wheel offers.

The night is cold and he hasn't picked up at all so far, so not long after he finds himself nodding his agreement. He has long stopped to set fixed prices for his services. Here on the outskirt of town, far away from any fancy hotels, with the exception of a rundown motel closer to the highway, you could call it a lucky day to get one of the well-heeled customers - no negotiations ever. There is only an offer that you accept or decline. He has rules he sets, there is a lot of crazy shit he doesn't want to do, but if it's one of the better paying civils, limits could be ignored for once.

He would get over it eventually, if he got enough booze and coke out of it – it would help him forget everything and his rent was soon due anyway. He couldn't be picky, since he was close to losing even that small bed room apartment. He'd rather had spent his money on white snow than bothered to pay the bucks he owed the rental owner of his fucked up rundown home.

He walks around the hood of the car and gets into the passenger side without further argument. He fucking needs the stuff tonight and his body is more than relieved when he's closing the car door, and a warmth surrounds him instantly. It's tingling all over his skin as the heat slowly but steadily is taking possession of his ice cold bones. He looks out of the window at the passing by sleeping Pittsburgh, not trying to offer small talk. The guy doesn't seem to be into talking the shit out of him. All business like and he even is wearing a fucking suit. He had worse but the longer they drive the more he feels like he is being transferred to some other guy than about to get his hands on the driver at all. Not even a glance is spared for him and apart from the exchanged offer no questions were asked. They pass the suburbs heading further into town and across and out to Silwackey, before reaching a smaller hotel. The driver parked and left the car without another word exchanged. Now it's up to him to follow up. He could make a run for it right now, tramping back, but the need for the money and the drugs it could buy him was stronger than anything else.

He hurries up quickly crossing the expensive looking lobby to catch up with the guy who drove him here, just in time with the arriving of the elevator.

Of course he could have taken the car or stayed in waiting for the guy to return– the guy might as well would have driven him back, because those customers usually were really polite as hell and despite all that he wasn't keen to attract a police investigation for stealing a car that was worth at least half a million, for all he could tell. He was hiding away for a reason, more media attention was the least of the things on his ultimate wish list.

 

The elevator felt poorly ventilated and stuffing hot all the same, making the boys hands sweat nervously. He watched the numbers increasing the higher they got to their suspected floor. When they'd finally had come to a hold and the doors dinged open in the 5th floor, he followed the driver suit and was shortly after abandoned to face a white wooden door that seemed to be mocking him with the golden numbers of 7887 engraved.

God, the world was seriously mocking him for all he knew.

 

The 50$ bill being pushed into the palm of his hand, was burning his skin, so sensitive he felt, watching the driver disappear. A lingering shame threatening to overwhelm him as his anxiety made his legs shake. Would he ever get used to this?

He had the money, he could as well make a run for it. The entire scenery was completely weird and unheard off, for all he could tell, while working in this line of work.

But before he could give it any more thought, the door cracked open, bringing him face to face with his supposed Jon.

Maybe that one was looking for something filthy, at least it would explain why he wasn't hiring any high class escort, who was decent and not attracting any attention, instead of going out of his way to pick someone like him up, someone who made his business on the corner of a street in the suburbs. He wasn't exactly material to be wined and dined. Not that fine words were out of his reach, once upon a time he was high society enough to go places without drawing unwanted focus to himself. Working low profile saved his sanity. But that was long ago, something he would never be again.

He avoided the bling bling areas where champagne was sprayed and dollar bills were worth enough to light a cigar with. The chance to bump into someone he knew was way too high for his liking.

  


He passed the filthy grinning guy, entering the suite slowly. All these white furniture inside burned itself on his retina, blinding him for the moment just to stay in his memory.

A man his own age offered him his hand and he returned the greeting as politely as he could, sending the rest of his consciousness on a distant journey.

What was supposed to be happening now in those 2 hours in that hotel suite, shouldn't take apart his fragile soul even more.

Like a remote – on autopilot- he fulfilled what the Jon had asked and paid for. It didn't feel like a service since he was selling his soul to the devil but than again that one was long gone anyway.

In the end he was even allowed to take a shower once everything had been dealt with and the guy was sprawled out naked and satisfied in the white linen covering the messed up bed. Not many Jon's gave him time to get cleaned up afterwards. That one obviously had manners, but he tried really hard not to think about it any further, at least there haven't been crossed any boundaries tonight.

Chances were he might recognize him, even though he had shaved most of his hair except for his fringe who covered up the top like an imitation of a mohawk. He sighed to himself and would have prefered to remain forever in the shower with the warm water beating down on his sore muscles, letting it work its magic of awakening his dead body for several minutes. But he didn't want to overextend the patience of his customer, so after he had dried off, he slipped back into his partly torn and worn out jeans and tugged the 50$ bill savely in the pocket of his pants, before leaving without goodbye and making his way back home.

His body was hurting all over, he couldn't even pinpoint what part of his body felt more used but the coldness covered up everything for the time being, making it's way deep to his tired bones. For today, that had to be enough, since his energy reserves were depleted and considering the time he had just spent after waiting for so long, his chances to pick up again were running close to zero.

 

With faltering steps he finds himself on his way home after the driver had dropped him off half way back into the outskirts of town – the asshole. Nevertheless it doesn't stop him from still getting stuck at the next familiar bar a few blocks down the main road. His dealer is nowhere to identify among the crowd of people and therefore his options narrow down to nothing more than to drown his mind in tons of cheap as fuck booze.

He desperately needed to forget this day. By the time he had made his decision, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to wake up the next morning, so he settled for he didn't really mind if he wouldn't have to. It wouldn't be his first case of alcohol poisoning by far. Every time he had to meet one of these high earners – the better part of society- he was reminded all too painfully of what he had lost.

 

Maybe everything would be different today if he had taken more risks back in the days, or would have picked up more women, to cover up what he really seeked, maybe if he would have made a move instead of being sidelined by his own awkwardness. If he just would have been normal instead of spending the day with the feeble attempt of getting the attention of his linemate instead of just going with the bromance everybody outlined all too clearly, even though he never picked up on it. Even though he might occasionally did - it humoured him when interviewers asked about a soundbite, but nothing else - it was never enough, not what he wanted, not what he needed. Too blinded by his own emotions and too caught up in concealing his feelings for him.

 

After the first bottle of vodka, that he drowned right at the bar, sitting by himself, he asked the bartender for two more bottles to take home. It wasn’t regular to sell alcohol across the counter and he knew, but that club was shady enough to give him what he asked for, dropping the cash with a large enough tip to convince the bartender from the opposite and moved on. The first tears of the day dropped on his jacket as he made his way through the dark alleys. What if he would have told him how he felt? - he asked himself silently.

Maybe, just maybe he wouldn’t have ended up as such a picture of misery. Then he might have never touched drugs in the first place, Maybe he hadn’t even turned to alcohol as a soother the way he used it nowadays. Maybe things would be okay, they would be living happily ever after.

Maybe - might - would - could have been - These words accompanied him ever since he got lost in his warm dark brown eyes for the first time, straight after meeting him.

Even though they were only a leftover memory on the blurred screen of the cinema in his mind - hazy, fuzzy, dusted reminders.


	2. Fateful reunion

Evgeni… Zhenya... Geno.

**Evgeni Vladimirovich Malkin - Евге́ний Влади́мирович Ма́лкин**

The name of his greatest love and his greatest pain. Best friends forever, they had promised each other, even when half the world had kept them apart, when Geno spent the offseason back home in Russia.

Forever vanished entirely and all promises were forgotten, as it had gotten too much for him to cope with. Too much to observe, being only a spectator to the self destructive run down of a promising hockey career. The press had reported almost daily about his Captain’s drug and alcohol escapades, when he had been sidelined on IR and someone spotted him out on the street, or in the back of bars in the middle of the night. Fans spreading rumors about what they had seen and journalists comparing it to all he’d done up until then.

He never texted or tried to call again, when the first headline broke, sporting a grainy photo of the dark haired Canadian in some unknown bathroom stall, obviously hiding a package of whatever - if Sid recalls today it probably had been coke - in the palm of his hand. He had always been looking out for him in the locker room, during media scrums and on the ice. Taken more than just one hit on the last minute, if he could, to keep the damage at bay. Had helped fend off reporters that were too noisy.

 

The Russian left him with a feeling of a silent kind of help, a feeling of reassurance that he would catch him, whenever he lost track but over and over again and again - all it did was feeding fuel to the fire within him.

Boiling the kettle of want higher, until it couldn’t take no more. Having him up close, crowding in his personal space, the broken but still heavy accent only a few feet away at best - so hot and yet he was left to deal with the painful longing. It left him feeling helpless in the face of his own desire, left him without any other choice. He had to numb his mind to endure his linemates presence, without accidentally giving away his true feelings for him in any way, or even worse in front of the camera for all of the fans and the board to see.

Too consuming was the fear of his possible rejection, the fear of even coming out of the closet as the first player in the NHL. Openly labeled as gay for the rest of his career.

 

Alone in the early hours of morning, out on the icy streets off a half asleep Pittsburgh, miles away from Nova Scotia in Canada - on his way to his fucked up apartment, he took another sip from the 3rd bottle of vodka. The way home suddenly felt much too far, with his legs all wobbly, leaving him more swaying from side to side rather than walking. The second bottle was trashed somewhere halfway, after he smashed it angrily against a wall, when he had found it to be empty. That fucking loser of a bartender had cheated on him, taken advantage of the fact, that he was already intoxicated before he left the club.

More and more tears cascade down his sunken cheeks with each painful thought and memory of the bulky Russian. His feet no longer felt able to carry him any further, so he found himself giving in and sliding down the nearest lamp post to remain halfway sitting, halfway sprawled out on the icy ground, clutching the remaining bottle of booze closer to his run down jacket covered in weeks old dirt.

His body was shaking from the cold and by now with almost violent sobs. It felt a little bit like heaven had come closer to torture him, he could even hear his questioning voice.

"Sid?"

Today he was missing him so much that his brain started to trick him, making it sound so damn real.

"Sidney?"

Again his name said so softly, in the tone only he could make it sound, the main pronunciation on the first two letters, with the rest being swallowed up halfway out and the S with a slight lisp to it, just like he always used to say it- almost a far away whisper. It made him break down further, crying harder in the cold winter’s night.

 

He needed another sip of vodka to help wash away his voice, echoing inside his head but found himself unable to raise his hand, that was still clutching the bottle firmly, no matter how useless his damaged wrist might be, it would do the job, that one job at least. It was no use for anything else - at least not for Hockey.

Confused, he opened his eyes and caught sight of firm but also soft hands, that had taken a strong hold of his wrist, that were keeping him away from supplying his brain with any more of that much needed vodka. He wanted to tear himself away, from whoever restricted him, but the guys handle on his wrist - his bad wrist - wouldn’t give an inch, sending small prickles of pain up his arm, as he struggled to get free from the grip of the stranger.

"Sidney!"

Again that voice, more demanding this time - Geno's voice.

 

The Canadian wants to lay eyes on the person who still prevents him from getting rid of his gentle voice, echoing in his mind, breaking his heart in two. His gaze fixing on gentle familiar brown eyes. So beautifully and radiant. So unreal - he must be either dreaming or dead.

 

"Sid! You okay? Alright?" Soft lips form these words, the accent still obvious, it seemed thicker than the last time he had heard it.

 

No!

 

He must be dreaming, Evgeni couldn’t possibly be there. If he honest to god was standing right in front of him now, someone should please open up the earth underneath him and let it swallow him whole and forever. Sidney’s frantic thoughts even though not voiced were making themselves known in the shaking that had taken over most of his body, not only just the penetrating cold having latched onto him but the feeling of panic too.

 

He does not want to be seen like this, does not want him to see him like this, in this condition, this way. He never wanted Geno to know that dirty little secret he had hold dear.

 

“Nothing's alright, nothing!” the Canadian wants to scream, but all that airs and managed to get past the lump in his throat is inaudible mumbling, as the taller Russian keeps looking down at him.

 

No matter how much he is ashamed of the sight that he’s offering, he couldn’t pull his gaze away from those brown eyes, still staring down on him and felt himself slip further in the haze that the vodka bought him, allowed him to drown in this lovely bright amber glow, that tore his heart to shreds. The gateway to his lover’s soul.

 

Silence spreads out and he is still hold by him, the hand still clutching relentlessly at his wrist. Sidney let’s go of the bottle in his almost numb fingers, too transfixed and lost in the other man’s eyes and doesn’t even notice the force rippling painfully up his arm, as he is pulled off the ground straight into the waiting arms of him. A warm embrace, a breath ghosting over his face in a comforting manner, as the Russian speaks again. Careful chosen words, slightly hesitant as they stumble out of his mouth.

 

"Sid, what the fuck you think you’re doing? What wrong? You been gone so long, we all worry. Now I find you here in cold night. Thought you ran off with beautiful girl but seems not so much.” He rambled at him.

 

The younger guy can hardly stand straight and is expecting that his legs give way beneath him  every moment. But he’s assured that the other wouldn’t let him drop and fall over.

 

Friends forever, he’d said and all hope that in time they would become more than just friends occasionally hanging out and linemates being there for each other, had been crushed the longer his unrequited love was filled with white powder instead.

Now that his heart still aches and feels fond in the face of the Russian’s concerned gaze, while he’s being held up in his arms, looking all run down, he still is feels pathetic and even more like he doesn’t deserve to waste anymore of his precious time. Sidney would love to tell him anything and everything at once, is dreading to answer the questions Geno still holds, to find peace in his soul but no word escapes his still half open mouth and makes it past the lump in his throat clocking up  all the thoughts in his mind, until they are all jumbled up, with the Canadian unable to ask for even the smallest help. So all left to do for him is drowning in those eyes, he loved since he first walked into their locker room, with a shy smile and no knowledge of English language at all, using hand and feet and teammate Gonch to interpret his heavy flow of russian.

"Come on, Sid.  I'm take you home, get you sobered up, than we talk." The understanding and the concern that speaks out of him, every ounce of certainty that they could do this, that they could handle this mess and find a way back to normal. He can almost hear it dripping onto the floor with each syllable that hits the cold night air.

He doesn’t resent him, doesn’t push him away, as much as he wishes to do just that, he might not be much help either, but he feels himself nodding in agreement and let’s himself be led off by him, can’t hide some more tears tracking down his cheeks as he buries his face in Geno’s jacket whispering his address, when he asked where to go to.

The Russian holds him close, not letting go of Sid’s wrist but not pressing down on it either, the embrace almost tenderly and loving but still careful.

He wishes he could have more of this, could hold on for a little longer, wishes this moment would never end. Skin on skin contact. Evgeni all calm and collected walking beside him, navigating the streets as if he knew the way by heart. and maybe he had been out and about every other night looking for him, since he was gone. It just fills him with more guilt and shame at the image of the Russian roaming the streets at night in the hope of finding his lost linemate. Without another word, he hands over the key to his front door, once they reached the run down apartment blog and closes his eyes. His guts churning with nausea and waiting anxiously for the click of the lock indicating that Geno had opened the gate to his own personal hell, is taking in the mess that had become Sidney’s life. The door creaks in its angles as it is pushed open and he can feel him tensing up next to him, taking in a sharp breath of air at the sight revealed behind the crumbling paint and squeaky old floor beneath their feet.

 

Even a dark rotten cellar with mold covering most of the walls, looks like a 5-star hotel in comparison to his shack. There are empty vodka bottles everywhere, in the sink, on the kitchen counter, on the floor, on the window sill, just about fucking everywhere.

 

The shutters are down, drowning most of it into darkness with the little light slipping in from the hallway behind them, where only one bulb is actually working, when he hears Geno flickering the light switch to their left on, to reveal the rest of disaster. A filthy slightly soggy looking mattress on the floor, a pair of empty pizza boxes and other leftover take-out containers piling high in two different corners of the room, that is lacking most of it’s furniture, except for the left frame of an old chair, missing an actual seat and traces of cocaine on the floor next to his sleeping place.

Sid desperately wishes to turn back time, the entire scenario makes him feel so humiliated, he really wants to undo all of it. He can see the Russian shaking his head and feels the pull to his arm as he is guided back outside of the house, the door locked in a haste as Geno takes him down the hallway and back out into the cold, urging him to follow without words.

What would he do now?

He can’t find it in himself to fight back or even question the others motives, so he gives in and let’s him have it. There’s nothing left in him to defend himself against the pull of being close to Geno any longer. Maybe if he only got that one chance now, he should use it, make the best of it and bathe in the time they have together. Soon enough he will be back in his old routine. Maybe Geno is going to pay for him, if he still plays hockey he shouldn’t have problems to afford it.

The older guy had taken out his cellphone, juggling a bit to get it out of the pocket’s of his fitting jeans and is calling a cab.

So okay, they are probably going to end up in some random hotel for the night. He briefly wonders, where Geno left his car but the thought evaporates the further he’ trying to make sense of it in his drunken mind. He’s past caring. The Russian could take him everywhere, maybe even kill him. Sidney would probably even be grateful for that.

He’s grateful for the cab at least, when it pulls up and Geno is rattling of some unknown address, the warmth helps him relax just a little more. he couldn’t have walked anymore even if he wanted too. His knee was fucking killing him - stupid winter's cold.

 

A little later he finds himself facing a small terraced house, not outstanding, nothing fancy. Not the big mansion Evgeni bought himself when they were still playing together either. Children's toys were littering the little front garden, if the light from the street and the porch was enough to go by. Suddenly he really felt the urge to just run away.

This surreal dream was slowly turning into a nightmare, one of which Sidney desperately wanted to wake up from.

He couldn’t be real, wanting to take him into his little family home and life-

Impossible.

Sidney stopped on the sidewalk after getting out of the cab and almost tipped over backwards in shock. Startled, it was left to his old linemate to take a hold of his wrist again- the good one this time- as he pulled him unerringly to a side door. Yes, the well-known back door, where waste usually is disposed, that almost felt classic in a sarcastic way. For a second he thought that Geno had gotten the hang on things after all, bringing him here, sneaking him in through the back door like the waste he was. His pessimism was obviously not broken after all.

Eyes wide in disbelief the younger guy finds himself shaking his head vigorously - the only non verbal way of saying “No!” he knows, as words seemed to have left him.

He doesn’t want to enter. Geno shouldn’t be torturing him with his happy healthy little family life.

 

"Sid! Calm down! Easy! Come on." He’s gently clutching his hand and his thumb is leaving unknown patterns on the back of his sweaty hand. Sid doesn’t even realize that he is shaking, body still attuned to pull away from him, just as Evgeni tugs him closer to his chest, his big palm coming up to rest the younger guys head on his chest , the other arm pulling him into a strong hug, keeping their bodies entwined. Fingers slipping through the mohawk in slow motion.  Like a child he is cradling him back and forth.

"Okay Sid! All good, nothing bad happen. Breathe easy." His voice is even and serious, gentle and calm as he cups his cheek, separating them again to walk down the staircase leading to the basement of the house.

Why was he leading him to the basement? Another hint of his current status obviously. He was something to be ashamed off, he needs to be hidden from view. Geno’s wife and kid’s probably had no idea and shouldn’t have one on what was going on. That their husband was bringing an addict home. Sidney’s thoughts were running a mile a minute. Maybe it would have been better to go straight home tonight. No one had found him in all those years and here he is walking straight into Evgeni Malkin, his old love.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs his linemate is opening another door that reveals a small living in apartment. A room equipped with the most basic things someone would need. Nothing fancy or flashy.

He drags him over to the small couch with him and Sid goes, being pushed to take a seat. He rather would get up again, there was no way it would be okay to sit on this neat sofa, with clothes as mud ridden as the ones he was wearing right now. The stains would never come off the fabric. But his legs won’t obey any more, his knee throbbing painfully as he folds himself in, to sit on the very edge of the clean white padding.

The house seems silent, maybe no one else is home or all are fast asleep, anyway the sound of the tea kettle being put on and boiling is suddenly very loudly assaulting his ears. It doesn’t take long for Geno to come over and settle down, handing him a  cup of tea, while letting himself drop right next to him and placing a glass of water on the coffee table in front of them.

Close, too close, too close! It makes breathing more difficult for the younger man, with the Russian not even an inch away, but the gesture of the offered cup really does mean a lot to him, as he encloses the delicate porcelain with trembling fingers.

His care is something he had missed the most, even though he kind of hated it at the same time. Attention drawn on his ridiculous crush back in the days, when they were both skating among ice, was something he avoided. It would have been too much of a give away.

They both  still remain silent, but it feels unusual to both ends. In the past Sid have had enough self control and well maintained coolness to at least keep a conversation going, he never forced eye contact, but the words still never faltered. Chirping, chitchat, hockey talk or stats it all came easy enough.

But now here he finds himself unable to break the silence. lost for words, because his feelings for him are as strong as ever.

"Hey Sid, easy. You drink tea, then water, get you clean head.  Look at me, good, now spill. What’s up?" The Canadian shrugs his shoulders. The blush creeping back on his face, pinking up his cheeks further and the tears and urge to tell him everything that lead to their meeting increase boundlessly. He’s nibbling away at his lip in shame and worry. He couldn’t let the Russian down like this. He wanted to spill, he desperately wanted to but didn’t know how to phrase it.

Geno sighs heavily, hugging the silent boy to his chest again, getting aware of the fact how small he had become, since the last time they’d meet. All muscle evaporated leaving just a skinny boy behind. His fingers gently try to tame the wild mohawk going on, on Sidney’s head to no avail. He can feel him shiver underneath his touch, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of his head, where the hair is cut short, exposing skin to air and even shows some old little scars, from when he had hit the ice, when he’d been younger. But that is just something Geno assumes. His other hand drawing comforting circles on his back, in a slow pattern, fingers splaying wide across the small of his back.

Sid can’t help but flinch from the touch, hoping against hope that Evgeni missed this little scowl on his face, his skin was still sensitive to the touch, bruised flesh covered up my fabric.

“Sid? Talk, what’s wrong? You hurt? Someone hurt you?”.

What is he supposed to answer? “Geno go and take a long glance, there probably are several handprints lingering on my skin and other bruises from when I worked 3 hours ago? And from last week and the week before that and before that?” He settles for shrugging his shoulder and shaking his head instead, not feeling ready enough to

cros that topic just yet, as he takes another sip of the tea in his hands, noticing the added sugar. It’s also the same second he gets aware, that his old linemate is pushing his jacket aside and his sweatshirt upwards.

He doesn’t find it in himself to stop him.

"Sidney." his name is not much more than whisper from his lips. "What you do?"

For the first time Geno seems to drink in his entire appearance, is taking closer look at him now and in his lovely brown eyes he can  see disbelief, fear and knowledge fight against each other. He closes his eyes, feels ashamed and can’t stand the look in his eyes, holding his breath without being aware of it. He wants to escape, wants to whisper the solution of the miracle more than ever.

“Geno, you're the reason and solution of my misery. How shall I explain this to you?” he wants to scream on top of his lungs as shame fills him up from tip to toe. He’d sunken deep down, trying his best to hide in himself. Has drowned that just one wave was enough to reveal his secret. The strange scratch marks on his back and the bruises are obviously no leftover from dating a girl, nor something you get while crashing down the stairs, they were telling their own story.

Denial won’t help his cause either, Geno’s eyesight was perfectly fine as far as he could tell. He finds himself coughing as he tries to straighten up a little, making room between himself and the big Russian at his side,  who prefer to hold onto him anyway.

“Fallen angel." he hears him whisper, followed by a few russian phrases he doesn’t understand.

He doesn’t  let go of him, indeed he gets so damn much closer to his face. Sid can feel the warm breath fanning out on the bridge of his nose. Blood is rushing in his ears, by all means Evgeni is just making it worse by the minute. He should just let go, shouldn’t be looking at him. He did not deserve this. .

"Why?" he whispers again, eyes urgent and hard as steel. He wouldn’t let that one go any time soon. Sidney closes his eyes in shame, feels the other man's thumb caressing his cheek softly. Oh if that love he felt filtering through the touch would be exactly the same love he felt for him ever since. The bitter grief to be so close to the man that he wants, that his body is yearning for is killing him slowly but surely, thoroughly.

His face must transfer enough for Geno to not persist further, maybe he had made up is mind, is already planning to kick his useless ass out of the door and regrets ever bringing Sidney back to his place.

Shortly after, he can  feel his soft lips, lower down on his own pursed ones, all bitten raw from earlier as he tried to kept himself from screaming in pain.

His heart is leaping in his chest, it feels like it’s trying to break through his rib cage at any moment. Frightened he opens his eyes.

“Geno, what the hell are you doing here?” he mumbles against his lips, tears swimming in his eyes. He just keeps his face still, lips not moving and his eyes firmly closed.

“Shh.” he murmurs against Sid’s lips, who starts to feel like he’s doing everything wrong. But isn’t holding back at all when he feels Geno’s tongue asking for entrance.

Although it might not be serious, he wants to enjoy this moment and keep it locked up deep down in his heart.

When they finally break apart after what feels like hours, Sid’s breath hitching in his chest, Geno’s eyes boring deeply into his own, staring him down. An uncertain smile is left on the Russian’s lips.

"Geno." the Canadian’s voice is almost inaudible.

"Yeah Sid?"

"Don’t play games, don’t give me a pity party. I...you know what I….you know." he stops mid-sentence, lowering his eyes in shame. Doesn’t know whether to trust him, to take this entire weird scenario happening between the both of them for granted or not. Doesn’t know if he can still hope, if he is allowed to hope.

"No, I not. I don’t play games with Sid, I’m sorry you made bad decisions. I know you hurt. I only want Sid to be better. Want you to be your best. I only here for help. Want you smile and happy. I wait until you will tell. I can. I understand you may not trust me.” Geno answers seriously.

"But, but ..." Sid starts stuttering, trying to make Geno believe him, trying to explain everything, anything at all, but the Russian wouldn’t let him finish, sealing his quivering lips with another kiss.

“We have time. You stay here, get okay again. I help. We can do this.” Geno murmurs as they break apart once more and he urges the glass of water into Sid’s hand’s, replacing the already empty tea cup. Sid is confused, also still drunk but he thinks his hearing is still working perfectly fine.

"Geno, I...I  love you." After all these years he had finally managed to express the longing of his heart in a shuddering breath. Waits for the backlash that never comes, instead Geno peeks his lips to Sidney’s nose smiling brightly.  

"I love you too Sid. Sid best. sid best lover, best friend, best everything, always. You’ll get better." Geno murmurs. Sid feels like he cracks in the middle, after all those years, he finally got to hear those words. Geno is in love with him. This stupid Russian is all that matters now. And yes it will take time, but maybe he can try building something new, a new life with Geno.

"Forever," he whispers in his ear, nuzzling his face into the crock of Geno’s neck hopefully.

“Forever.” Geno replies earnestly.

Now he knows  he will stand by him finally, until the day when they would grow old, he would fall asleep right next to him until his hands would be cold.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on Tumblr if you want to talk :) Link is on my profile


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